


piece by piece, till we fall apart

by TheKitteh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Taxi Driver coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKitteh/pseuds/TheKitteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Taxi Driver", after Sam returned from Purgatory whole and unscathed and alone, neither of the  brothers can sleep and Dean has to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	piece by piece, till we fall apart

There are certain things that Dean Winchester just knows.

Like, when stabbed, demons and angels bleed and die like any other supernatural piece of crap. That pie is the greatest dessert since ever.

Or like the fact that the Impala is the most important car in the world and damn anyone who dares to disagree.

And like, while laying in the middle of the night, he knows that right now, Sam’s unable to sleep and doing a shitty job pretending.

They’re in one of those rundown, no-name motels that made most of their lives, stuck somewhere between Middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania and Poor Excuse of a Pisshole, Illinois. Sam was quiet doing the drive, not even making one single comment on how Dean didn't flick on the radio at all. For the longest of hours it was the steady purr of the Impala's engine and his little brother’s heavy breathing, before Dean pulled over, claiming they were done for the night. He likes to think that Sam didn't notice the white-knuckled grip from the drive or the way his hands shook when he got the key.

And so, now, they’re both in their respective beds, laying in the dark and silence, and neither is asleep. Sam’s curled on his side (and Sam never sleeps like that, not with his shoulders hunched so much that it’s like he’s trying to hide himself underneath the flimsy sheet), desperate to keep his breath stead and low, desperate not to worry his brother.

Sam didn’t say what happened exactly down there and Dean didn’t ask (he’s afraid of what Sam saw, of what Sam understands now, of what Sam knows about his big brother). He just knows that Bobby’s soul is in Heaven, that Benny got his brother out and that Sam finished the second trial and is hurting, aching _again_.

So, after whoever knows how many minutes - hell if he knew, if he cared - have passed, Dean climbs out of his cheap-ass bed with a low grunt. He sees Sam’s shoulders twitch, sees how he clamps down the urge to turn and face Dean; keen on pretending he was asleep when both know better.

The mattress dips underneath Dean’s added weight and Dean slides underneath the covers swiftly, molding his body against Sam’s back like its missing piece. he nestles himself in the small space and only gets a small “Dean?” in reply. Sam’s voice is tight, muffled by the pillow and Dean promptly ignores it, finding himself a comfortable place with his nose buried in the nape of Sam’s neck. One hand sneakes around, fingers splayed over Sam’s heart and he curles himself over his over-grown baby brother. Keeps him close, pulls even closer, trapped in a cage made of his arms and legs and never wants to let go.

His feet are cold as he tucks them between Sam’s,  fingers clutching the threadbare shirt he sleeps in and he breathes in the smell of Purgatory and Hell and _Sam_.

Dean feels the way his name rumbles through Sam’s chest when he mutters it again, those freakishly long fingers of his a shaky weight over Dean’s. The do not curl, do not hold, not just yet, but linger there, uncertain and hopeful in a way only his brother's touch can be.

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean says and tastes warm skin, mouths a hard kiss to Sam’s neck, presses himself even more against Sam’s back. He wants to mold them together, fuse bone to bone, saw tendons and muscle tight so he doesnt' have to explain or ever be apart.

But Sam was always too stubborn, never really knew when to let things go – not when it came to Dean and himself, maybe even especially when it all boiled down to the two of them – and so he shifts and turns and twitches in the embrace of Dean’s arms, ignores the way Dean tries to stop him from moving. Moves around restlessly, stubborn little piece of shit,  until they’re face to face and nose to nose, sharing warm and short breaths.

Sam’s eyes are too wide and so, so dark in the middle of the night, scared like the boy he was a lifetime ago.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a while, sounding more like when he was fifteen and hated and loved Dean in the same time. His voice threatens to break and Dean’s fingers still are twisted in the fabric over Sam’s heart; he feels its erratic beat when he leans in to press his lips against his brother’s. Sam opens up in a blink of an eye, even if the angle is all wrong and their noses bump. They're clumsy and sloppy and Dean think he never loved his brother more.

The kisses taste strangely of old beer, toothpaste and desperation.

“Dean…” Sam tries again, lips moist and eyes glazed, and _oh God_ , he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, the stupid fuck.  He paws at dean's chest like a terrified animal, words tumbling, spilling from his kiss-red mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know… I… Even Bobby, he … I should have…” The next ones get lost somewhere in another kiss, smeared over Dean's mouth.

“Shut up, Sam.”

Dean reaches for Sam ,blindly, forces his brother’s head to fit underneath his trembling chin and buries his nose in that ridiculous mess Sam calls hair. One of them is shaking; or maybe they both are, who the Hell cares now, because Sam’s fingers are digging into his sides. His brother experienced all of Dean’s greatest records in the span of 24 hours and is holding on as if for dear life and all Dean can do is _this_.

“Just…shut up, Sammy.” he rasps, eyes shut so tight that he sees red, bloody red dots that swirl and dance behind closed lids and tightens his embrace, one hand splayed over the Sam’s back.

Sam nods, his breath hitched and short, burrows himself even closer and it should be uncomfortable; their legs tangled and knees bumping, and it's too hot, too much, their skin burning where it's connected.

It’s not.

It’s theirs.

Sam’s breathing evens out somewhere around the grey dawn and his body finally softens within Dean’s arms.

Dean doesn’t sleep that night and he doesn’t stop stroking the scar at the base of Sam’s spine either.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr


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